AN: Here's a little random piece if you want one...I just found The Professor, as portrayed by Clive Owen, dangerously inspirational and attractive :) This was meant as a one-shot, 'stops here and that's all folks' piece, however, I'm willing and able to continue if there are enough people interested...If you want more from the Professor and my OC just let me know in a review or PM. And for any and every other comment, you know I'd love to know what you readers think :) Now, for the legal issues...

Disclaimer: I proclaim no rights or title to Bourne Identity/Supremacy/Ultimatum, they are Robert Ludlum's and Universal's characters, I'm just playing with them.

I. Look What They Make You Give...

Grey sunlight, typical of London, poured through a white curtained window into a plush, upper class, parlor, spilling over a dark piano poised in front of it.

On the instrument, a piece by Erik Satie was being played by a ten year-old boy, Henry Dawes, as his tutor sat on the nearby leather couch, listening. The child was talented, his fingers sure and light as they wrought the melancholy spell that mingled so well with the dreary light, and he concentrated fully on the sheet of music sitting before him.

The tutor was probably proud, but one wouldn't know whether he was pleased or displeased by the stoic look on his chiseled face. Actually, no one who had ever met Jeremy Cale, the Professor, could recall a time where emotion had been displayed by him in any manner. He always used an even tone of voice, always bore a plain face and his movements were steady and controlled, if not calculated. He seemed to be a shadow, a keeper of the participants in life rather than one of them.

He sat now with relaxed, but attentive, posture on the couch, his green eyes trained on the pupil, watching each movement, searching for a flaw that would be corrected in a deep British baritone devoid of any other inflection. His dark grey suit and matching tie of a lighter shade of grey was in keeping with the man himself, indistinct, the only ornamentation of his outfit one of practical use, a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles that just happened to attractively frame his intense green eyes.

At first glance, most, if not all people, found the man dull, and for him, that was a good thing. The reason for this was the plain and simple truth that Jeremy Cale was a killer. An assassin recruited, trained, and used by the CIA as a part of the Black Ops program known (to those few who knew it existed) as Treadstone. Obscurity, anonymity, and secrecy were traits of the highest value to him in his dual lifestyle, and the motto of his existence was that one couldn't remember something or someone they had never noticed.

So, Jeremy Cale, Professor by day, government assassin by night - or so to speak- sat reticent on the couch, seemingly impervious to anything the world might throw at him.

However, beneath the gray suit and obscure face, there existed a soul that was quite capable of feeling and doing so deeply. It would be hard to explain why such an artistic soul, for such Jeremy Cale's soul was, would become the callously efficient, robot-like assassin he was. So, instead, it is much easier to say that he simply was what he was, and kept the emotions that he did feel neatly bottled beneath the surface, only allowing them release at those times when he listened to or - very rarely in public - played the piano himself; being content the rest of the time to watch others experience humanity.

"That was beautifully done, Henry." as the piece ended a feminine voice congratulated the student's success where the teacher would not. The young musician jumped up from the stool and ran to his aunt eagerly, pulling her closer to the piano, talking at a fast pace about the piece he was to play at his school recital.

Alicia Dawes, 23, daughter of William Dawes III, book editor, lived with her aged father in the refined town house, caring for her deceased sister's son as her own. She was tall and lithe, with pretty hazel eyes and burnished brown hair that fell in waves to the center of her back. She had a ready laugh and an easy-going attitude, traits that were, sadly, somewhat rare in the upper class to which she'd been born.

Jeremy had profiled her as he did everyone: quickly and accurately, however, he couldn't dismiss her so easily. She was like a magnet; constantly tugging and calling, pulling at the barriers so strongly affixed around him. She had no idea of course, and Jeremy would never give her one, besides that, he was never around her long enough for any serious damage to be done.

"...I'm going to go after Margaret; she's number 6, so I'm right in the middle of the program." Henry was saying as he showed Alicia a program, wrinkled from being in his pocket.

"A very good place, you'll be the star of the show." Alicia said with a bright smile, proud of his hard work. Henry put the program down on top of the piano,

"You play it, Ally," he said, using her nickname, "I want to hear you play it."

"Oh, maybe later, Henry, you're not finished with your session, and I don't want to waist the Professor's time." she declined, glancing over at Jeremy. He sat like impenetrable stone, but felt those soft hazel eyes bore into him. She tugged her eyes back to her nephew, "Anyway, I'd much rather hear you play it again." She stood from the stool, smoothing her dark skirt over her shapely legs before going over to the sofa and sitting on the opposite end. As Henry began the song over, she leaned forward, propping her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her clasped hands, listening attentively.

But Alicia's thoughts were on something other than the song. She thought about the Professor, Jeremy Cale, the man she'd become intrigued, and now, almost obsessed with.

All her life she'd lived within her father's circle of well-to-do friends and associates, and as she'd grown up with their sons and daughters she'd been affronted by the facades and incessant 'keeping up with the Jones' that seemed to be a sport with them. Every word out of their mouths was about 'them' and what 'they' had done, and there had been a lot of such words, so many that sometimes she felt like she lived within a beehive, amidst a thousand queen-bees whining for their way. Even when they'd all gone to University, the place that was supposed to be the rite of passage from adolescence to adulthood, it had continued. So, when she'd met the piano instructor her father had hired, so silent and reticent, she'd been curious to discover why he was so different.

She'd sat in on several lessons in order to satisfy her curiosity, even talked to him, short vague conversations that left neither with any real information, and she had felt alarms go off at the instructors recurring lack of emotion. But then, that day came, the day when Jeremy Cale played the piano for Henry.

The teacher and his pupil had been alone in the parlor as she'd resigned herself to keep to the study where she could work. After a discussion with her father about the 'strange man' whom she 'did not trust' she was trying to do as she had been told and 'calm down and not get into a tizzy'.

She'd been sitting at the desk, re-editing the children's story from a new author, when a song, very much different from the style of Henry's playing, rolled through the house. Sitting down her glasses she'd stared at the open door, as if to see the source of the music come walking through it, and, when it hadn't, she'd gotten up and quickly while quietly, walked to the parlor, following the enchanting sound.

Standing at the door, she'd seen, not her nephew, but the Professor Cale himself sitting at the instrument; his jacket draped over the stool beside him, his fingers dancing across the ivory keys flawlessly. Henry had stood at his shoulder, watching with rapt attention and awe, just as she. Alicia had stepped into the room, drawn to the music, anxious to see the musician's face. Standing in the soft shadows of that rainy afternoon, she'd observed a totally new Jeremy Cale; instead of the vague expression in his eyes, turned downward to the keys, there was fire and rain, passion and sorrow, and it came to her ears, echoed by the notes he pulled from the wooden box sitting in front of him as a thick sticky substance like the sap from a tree that was surely alive.

Someone could not play music like that and not feel something.

Her fear and suspicion had been turned to intrigue and fascination by that experience, and ever since then, she'd wondered why he kept himself so closed off from the world. He was intelligent, he seemed to be someone of moral character, and he was rather good looking with his dark hair, green eyes, and pleasing features, reasons for which she didn't see the need for his intensely enforced solitude. The curiosity had become a full blown obsession, and then, a concern as she came to the conclusion that something dreadful must have happened to him to make him this way. She felt compassion for the man, and a longing to know the man he was and had once been. She wished he would play again, she thought he was beautiful when he played. But he never did.

So, she sat on the opposite end of the sofa, listening to the piano, thinking of him. This would be the last time he'd be here, they were selling the London house in order to move to Bath, her father's health was rapidly deteriorating in the smoggy streets of the teaming city and she knew that both he and Henry would do better there. Henry didn't know they were moving yet, she hadn't wanted to tell him before everything was settled, and that hadn't happened until just an hour ago, so, she would have to break the news to both he and the Professor today. She was surprised by how sad she felt at the prospect of not seeing the Professor...Jeremy...any longer. Perhaps she'd entertained more imaginings about him with her rather than just him in the past few weeks. But that didn't matter now did it.

When the lesson was over, she asked the Professor to come to the study so she could give him his monthly check. Within the darker study, Jeremy Cale stood in front of the desk while she filled it out, and she could feel his green eyes on the top of her head, boring through her skull and digging into her brain where he could see what she was thinking. At least, that's what it felt like.

"Here you are." she stood and handed him the slip of paper, coming round the desk. Their fingertips touched and she felt her heart hammer a little faster. But she swallowed back the sensation and turned her thoughts once more to the unpleasant business at hand.

Unknown to her, Jeremy couldn't ignore the reaction he'd had to their brief contact either, but as he saw that there was something else on her mind he reinforced his guards and gave her his undivided attention. He was surprised by the hesitance he saw in her eyes, evidence that she was about to say something she didn't want to, and, somehow, he knew he didn't want to hear it.

"We're moving to Bath." she said, her words sounding rushed, forced - it was even more difficult to say than she'd imagined. She took a breath and her pace slowed. "I want to thank you for how you've worked with Henry; he's a different boy than when he first came here after..."

"He's a good student." Jeremy cut in, severing her sentence and trying to block the sudden influx of emotions that her revelation had made. She nodded her head, looking down as a small sad smile crossed her mouth.

"He is that...You're a good teacher." she looked up at him again as she said this, their eyes meeting, a fleeting message passing between them that could not be translated into words. "If you're ever in Bath...please, do stop by, I - I know Henry would - love to see you again." she faltered, his eyes were burning into her brain, sending a searing heat through her veins to her heart. She wanted him to know how much she would want to see him again, she wanted him to know how much she would give him...the real him she'd only had a glimpse of, the him she knew was the professor's core...so she held his gaze.

Jeremy couldn't look away from her, he didn't want to walk away either, however much he knew he couldn't stay. The walls were crumbling, the foundations cracking. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do. Well, that wasn't true, he knew what he wanted to do, he also knew what he could afford to do and what he could not. The truth was, he just didn't know what he would do. Words were rushing through his head, impulses were rushing through his nerves, desires and fears rushing through his blood, and at his weakest moment he had to choose.

Suddenly, impulsively, Jeremy took Alicia by the arm and pulled her stumbling against him, crushing her mouth with his. She gasped; the sound turning to a moan as it was muffled against his mouth. Then her lips parted, and she inhaled him, realizing who it was she was kissing.

The only light in the study came from a table lamp on the desk, throwing shadows on the pair as they shared that fleeting and impassioned embrace. There was desperation in their kiss, in the way that both clung to the other as if they would disappear the next moment.

In truth, they would.

Jeremy was lost in what he never allowed himself to feel, in what he'd always wanted to feel. It was more than just the sugared and spiced warmth of Alicia's mouth and skin; it was the range of sensation that washed over him like so many waves in an ocean. They were bruising and caressing, discordant and harmonious...like Chopin. He loved the humanity of Chopin.

Then his cell phone rang and vibrated, simultaneously, in his coat pocket between them.

The two sprung back as if burned, as if both knew just who it was that was calling. As the phone continued to ring so loudly in the quiet room, so did the finality. Then, the caller hung up, and there was silence once more.

Jeremy looked for one last moment at Alicia, and she looked back at him; neither saying a word, but neither keeping any secrets. Then, Jeremy turned and left, leaving the door standing open.

Alicia stared at it as she heard the front door close. Turning to face the desk, she put a hand to her lips and closed her eyes, willing tears back as she forced herself to remain where she was.

As he walked down the sidewalk to his car, Jeremy plucked the cell out of his pocket and flipped the phone open. The message was there, the order and picture in Technicolor. He slapped the phone shut, and as he unlocked the car door, he glanced back at the town house, and then slid into the driver's seat, and, doing what he had to, he left. As he started the engine he turned off the CD that automatically started in the player - it was Chopin.

...Don't worry guys, more is coming for No Longer an Innocent, and I hope to write another Dark Angel M/A story soon...Till then, please review!

edit: 7/26/08

PS. This is set a bit before Bourne Identity actually begins, that's why the Professor is in London. Sorry, I overlooked that. Thanks to texamich for pointing that out...:)